That's a hard 'g', there in the title.
How much do I hate cutting the grass. That's not a question. I absolutely dread cutting the grass. It's a chore that takes my breath away, causes me to sweat to within an inch of a heart attack, I am sure, and causes untold numbers of muscles and bodily-apparati to rebel against me. It's a solid two hours of hard-labour, wide expansive lawn, tortuous hills and valleys to navigae. By the end of it, I am a dripping, walking, moaning zombie.
I so hate cutting the grass that I cannot take any pleasure in its being cut. My wife oohs and aahs at how nice the lawn looks after its cut. But I don't see that. All I see is grass that will only need to be cut again in a week or so. From the moment the lawn-mower (a gas-powered push mower, by the way. I'd never whine and complain if I had a ride-on mower. Rich benefactor, are you listening?) powers down, I start dreading the fact that it'll have to be done again in a week's time. Seven short days. Yes, as soon as the last blade of grass gets mowed, instead of celebrating an accomplished task, I begin to get depressed that the chore will have to be repeated again in a week.
That's how much I hate mowing the lawn.
Now, though, there is a bit of relief. My son has finally reached the age where he can help. Over the course of the summer so far, each grass-cutting, he has taken more and more of the responsibility, to the point where there is currently a 2/3 to 1/3 labour distribution ratio, me taking the higher. It would be a fifty-fifty split if there weren't the ditch and hill parts of the lawn to cut. I don't think he's old/strong enough to handle those clines yet.
His motivation for helping is not driven by mere humanity, helping the old man kind of feelings. No, it's strictly economic, and I have no problem with that.
He is truly saving my life. Truly. For that, I pay him well.
Maybe next year, the entire lawn-mowing responsibility will be with him, and I'll be free. Gloriously Free!! One day it will be so.
And on that day, I will understand, a little, how joyous the French felt in June, 1944.